


The Diplomat's Dragon

by indecisive_lotus



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Minor Original Character(s), dragons/meddling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:41:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24906241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indecisive_lotus/pseuds/indecisive_lotus
Summary: In which Hammond gives in to the inevitable and brings Churki home to meet his family.
Comments: 72
Kudos: 124





	1. Chapter 1

At the age of sixteen Arthur Hammond had resigned himself to the fact that he would have to either marry well or secure himself a position: between his sisters’ dowries and the estate upkeep, there would not be much in the way of an allowance for a second son. He had not wanted to be a lawyer; he had despised the thought of living out his days in a backwater vicarage; his brother had offered to buy him a commission in the army, but Arthur had not wanted to spend his life on the march from one muddy battlefield to the next. Marriage was not entirely out of the question, but any wealthy young heiress would have a number of suitors for her hand, and even at sixteen, Arthur had been aware that his personal graces were not likely to place him in the first rank of her affections.

What he _did_ have was a gift for languages, a sturdy constitution, and a certain streak of stubbornness that led him to persist where others might have tactfully retreated. Diplomat to China, when the chance came—a chance that he had partially created himself, Arthur was not sorry to admit—had suited him perfectly well. Traveling diplomat dragged about in the wake of Temeraire and Captain Laurence’s continent-spanning adventures had suited him rather less well, but had at least been unquestionably exciting, and flying had become a great deal more tolerable with a stash of dried coca leaves in his saddlebags.

But the moment Napoleon had been shipped off to St. Helena, the government had given Arthur a knighthood and a strongly worded hint to retire. He could certainly not be fired for _success_ in negotiations, but Arthur had been informed quite sternly that _someone else_ would be seeing to the particulars of the loan of a million pounds sterling to the Russians, thanked more-or-less sincerely for his assistance, and then placed on indefinite leave. For the first time in more than a decade, Arthur found himself at loose ends.

Had circumstances been different, he would have in fact welcomed a brief holiday before throwing himself into the task of regaining his position in both the Foreign Office and the Chinese court. An obstacle to this plan, however, raised itself in the form of a dragon-shaped head: Arthur had finally run out of excuses to put off bringing Churki to meet his family.

*

It was late in the afternoon when they put down on a grassy hillside at the edge of Ashford. The town was not six miles out from his family’s home at Sorrel Park, and of course Churki could have covered the distance in under half an hour, but she had insisted on doing things properly: that is, making a morning call.

“And where you have been learning about making morning calls, I would like to know,” Arthur informed her as he slid down from the harness. “Certainly not from the aviators, and I am sure there was no such custom amongst the Inca.”

“Oh, I have spoken to Mrs. Pemberton about it, while we traveled,” Churki said, with just a trace of smugness. “She taught me many things about English society—I thought it would come in useful.”

Arthur was grimly aware that that it _would_ be useful. Churki would have made an excellent diplomat, if she ever decided to exert her efforts towards anything other than expanding her ayllu. “I’ll go down to the inn and find us some dinner,” he said instead. “Is there anything in particular you want?”

“A side of beef, please,” Churki said, “cut up and roasted with some pepper, and those green herbs that you English like so much. And afterwards,” she added, with satisfaction, “you must tell me about your family again, so that I can be sure of their names tomorrow when we go to meet them.”

What Arthur was sure of was that she already knew their names well enough to recite them in her sleep, but there was no use in arguing. He resolved to find her a side of beef, and also to dash off a note to Sorrel Park warning them of their arrival tomorrow—he was well aware that he should have written a letter to that effect long before now, when they were almost at his brother’s doorstep, but he had always distantly imagined that Churki would change her mind somewhere along the way. Well, _that_ certainly had not happened. But at least one day’s warning was better than none; certainly there was also the option of declining to receive a morning call, but Arthur found it difficult to imagine even the most indomitable butler informing a dragon that the family was Not At Home.

However, his best intentions were turned to naught the moment he stepped foot in the inn courtyard.

“Arthur!” cried James Hammond, arresting himself at the entrance of the inn’s public house, one hand braced against the door in shock. “What on earth are you doing here? I thought you would be halfway back to China, by now!”

*

There was no possibility of putting off the meeting. James insisted on Arthur’s coming home immediately, and would hear of nothing else.

“Don’t be absurd,” he said, in reply to Arthur’s stammered protests that he couldn’t possibly put them out for dinner. “You’re family, how could we be put out? Our cook always makes too much, anyway.” Not even the news that Arthur had flown in on dragon-back, and would have to see to that dragon’s feeding, gave him any pause; it seemed that lately there had been a group of ferals two counties over—well, they were not to be called ferals anymore, Arthur supposed, just unharnessed dragons—that were hiring themselves out for various tasks such as plowing or carrying loads or rebuilding, after the war. James himself had hired them a handful of times and assured Arthur that the kitchen was perfectly up to the task of coming up with Churki’s supper.

“Although I am surprised that you came on a courier-beast,” James added. “You never had a head for heights, when we were young.”

Arthur had _not_ gained a head for heights, at all. “She isn’t a courier-beast,” he said. “Her name is Churki—”

“How charming,” James said, slapping him on the back. “Come on, we’ll take my carriage back. Where did you leave the beast? I’ll go find the innkeeper and have him send a boy around to tell her where to go.”

Churki certainly had no need of such a message, as she had already memorized every one of the Hammond family holdings; nor would she be willing to simply take a stranger’s word for it that Arthur had safely departed with a brother of his that she had never met. Arthur ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation and followed after James, who was already striding towards the stables.

“Never mind that,” Arthur said. “I’ll fly ahead with her, or she’ll go rampaging through the countryside to find me. Or,” struck by sudden inspiration, he added, “why don’t you come with me, and send the groom back with the carriage? Churki can take both of us to Sorrel Park in a quarter the time.”

“Oh, er,’ James said, faltering somewhat.

“The view from dragonback is nothing short of spectacular,” Arthur said, “if one has a head for heights—which I’m sure you must have, the way you fell out of every tree on the estate when we were children.”

Thus challenged, James could not retreat, and they soon found themselves walking through the outskirts of town. Arthur wracked his head the whole way there trying thinking of ways to explain Churki, but the best he came up with— _she insisted on following me home, and now she means to adopt our entire family down to our second cousins and transplant us to South America_ —sounded absurd even in his head. James, oblivious, kept up a happy stream of family gossip that only served to render Arthur more distraught: how cousin Sarah had almost been engaged, but the gentleman had not come up to scratch, but that was likely for the best as the young man was overfond of gambling; how his oldest girl had gotten into the jam last week and made a huge mess of the kitchen; how their nephews were all dragon-mad now, reading about them in the papers every day, and had even expressed a desire to join the Aerial Corps—

The conversation finally faltered as they crested a hill, and James spotted Churki lying on the hillside below them: twenty tonnes of teeth and talons and feathered scales, as she raised her head and inquired, “Arthur, you’re back already? And who is this?”

James had stopped in his tracks, his mouth agape. Arthur couldn’t really blame him; a courier-beast, or one of the smaller ferals no bigger than a stagecoach, could not truly compare to the sheer size of a heavyweight. Churki was not quite the size of a Regal Copper, but that still put her at taller than any building in town save for the bell-tower, and her viciously serrated teeth longer than a man’s forearm on full display as she spoke.

“Churki, may I present to you my brother, Mr. James Hammond?” Arthur said, nudging James forward.

“I—er—a pleasure to meet you, madam,” said James, a lifetime of good manners overriding any other instincts that he might have had, such as the one to bolt for cover. He even made an abortive attempt at a bow, badly mangled when Churki put her head down to examine him and he startled back.

“Your brother!” Churki said. “I did not expect to be meeting any of your family so soon—and I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” she added, to James. “I have heard so much about you, from Arthur—tell me, Mr. Hammond, how are your children? I have heard that you have three girls, all of them quite young?”

“They are doing quite well, thank you,” said James, shooting Arthur a bewildered look—likely wondering why Arthur had been telling a dragon about nieces which he had never even met himself, but as Arthur had only spoken of them to Churki in the hope that she would give up on her relentless campaign to take him into her ayllu—a hope which had not been answered—he did not feel up to the task of offering an explanation. “Catherine is seven, and Jane is five, and Penelope is turning four in a month—I shall have to see about hiring a governess for them soon.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Churki, sighing enviously, and turned her gaze on Arthur with a pointed and lecturing air.

“James was in town, shopping, and has invited us for dinner,” Arthur said hastily, before she could start in on him again. “Would you be so kind as fly us to Sorrel Park? We will be staying there tonight—but I hope you will not mind waiting until tomorrow to be introduced.”

“What?” said James.

“I do not mind at all,” Churki said. She sat up and shook out her wings, provoking James into another startled jump as the massive shadow of her wings fell across the hillside. “The spare carabiners are in my lower left baggage,” she added. “Do secure Mr. Hammond properly, if he has never flown before, and we shall be off at once.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Churki demonstrates her knowledge of land (and people) management.

James clung to the harness straps in terrified, white-knuckled silence for the entire fifteen-minute flight across the countryside, and afterwards had to be helped, staggering, into the house, where he sat nursing a large glass of brandy and a leg-cramp while their mother fussed over Arthur’s unannounced arrival and, as she put it, “great ravening beasts in the front garden, eating us out of house and home.” It seemed that James’s decision to hire the ferals for rebuilding had not been entirely without controversy.

Arthur was saved from this outpouring of maternal concern by the arrival of his nieces and his sister-in-law, none of whom he had ever met, as James had married after Arthur’s departure for China. The girls, at least, were perfectly amenable to a bribe of sugared almonds. Mrs. Julia Hammond was more reticent; she was a vicar’s daughter, quiet and well-mannered, and received his gift of a Chinese silk scarf with more politeness than enthusiasm. It seemed that she had observed Churki’s landing from her sitting-room window, and did not approve of her husband’s playing aviator—an opinion which Arthur felt was sadly justified.

By tacit agreement, all talk of dragons was banned at the table, but afterwards, when the ladies had retired to the drawing-room, James invited Arthur to the library and poured two generous measures of brandy before beginning his interrogation.

“Arthur,” James said, “you haven’t turned aviator, have you?”

Arthur sighed deeply.

“It’s only,” James continued, “that this beast doesn’t seem to be a hired dragon in the ordinary way. The ferals will take messages, of course, and passengers, in exchange for coin or supper, but I have never seen one quite so large—I thought dragons of a certain size were all in the Aerial Corps. But I suppose one of the smaller ones couldn’t have managed all your luggage?” This last said with a hopeful air.

“No, I am not an aviator, as I have not joined the Aerial Corps, nor do I have any intention of doing so,” Arthur said. And then, before his brother could look too relieved: “And no, Churki is not a hired beast, either—James, she means to take us with her.”

James looked bewildered, as well he might. “What?”

So Arthur had to explain: how the Incan dragons prized men above gold or jewels; how Churki had guided them to Cuzco, and taken to the inconvenient notion that he should join her ayllu; how Arthur had demurred on the grounds that he could not possibly leave his family—

“Yes, your dear family that you couldn’t possibly be parted from, so much so that you fled the country for eight years,” James said.

“I wrote every month,” Arthur protested.

“You _sent_ _presents_ every month,” James corrected. “Your letters were half a page long and repeated the same four pleasantries every time. Mother made a study of your correspondence once—did you know that you wrote, ` _And I hope you and the family will enjoy this tea, picked from the finest plantations in China`_ eight times in two years?”

“Er,” said Arthur, who had not known.

“But do go on,” James said.

There wasn’t much more to go on about. Churki wished to take on a human family and had decided that his would do; she had followed him across the ocean, to Japan and China and Russia, to meet them, and take them with her to her mother’s estate in the Incan Empire. Arthur had not managed to dissuade her all this while and it did not seem likely that she could be dissuaded now.

“So that’s what you meant by introducing us,” James said, settling back in his chair with a thoughtful expression.

“You’re taking this more calmly than I expected,” Arthur said. In fact the whole estate had taken Churki’s arrival better than he had expected; no one had shrieked, or fainted, and the footmen had been prevailed upon to bring out her dinner without much fuss, though the two selected for the honor had looked very pale.

“Oh, well,” James said, “I have used up all my shock for the next three months on that flight,” which was doubtless true, “and anyway, we are certainly not about to relocate to another continent. You will simply have to tell her that we cannot go.”

“As though I have not tried!” Arthur said in exasperation. “She has not listened to me at all—do you expect that she’ll suddenly turn around and go home, after following me all this way?”

“I’m certain you did your best,” James said graciously, and sipped at his brandy with all the self-assurance that being the elder brother by seven years could give him. “But I will go and have a word with her, and she is sure to see reason—there is certainly no question of us leaving England.”

“You’re certainly welcome to try,” said Arthur, who it had to be admitted was looking forward to watching his brother lose an argument with a dragon.

*

“No, I understand perfectly now—of course you cannot go,” Churki said to James. They were standing on the lawn in the deepening twilight; the light from the house did not reach far, and Churki was a dark shadow against the sky, except for a small patch around her head and forelegs which James’s lantern illuminated. They must have made an odd tableau: the Incan dragon with her orange-and-violet feathered scales and gold bands around her neck, bending her head down to speak with an English gentleman against the backdrop of a manor house on the hill; and off to the side, a second English gentleman watching them in disbelief.

James had started off asking about her dinner; Churki had praised the kitchens; they had traded some commonplaces about the weather. And then James had brought about the impossibility of removing their family from their ancestral estate, in a hinting matter, and Churki—who had never before displayed any sort of willingness to listen to hints—had agreed at once, without argument.

“I have been speaking to your servants,” she continued now, “and of course I have seen your lands as we flew today, and it seems that I have been mistaken about your circumstances,” a statement to which Arthur strongly objected, as he had spent months laying out their circumstances to her, “as your holdings are quite larger than I had expected.” She bent her head a little lower, confidentially, and said: “I hope you will not take any offense, but I must say that your lands do not seem to be in good order—there are many fields lying fallow, which should not be in this season, and I have seen a number of buildings ruined by fire which ought to be torn down.”

“No, no offense at all,” said James, “you speak only the truth, and you are quite correct. Unfortunately we lost many men during the war, who are only now beginning to return, and much was damaged during the invasion. I’m afraid we have not the hands to plow or rebuild as we should.”

“I thought it was something like that,” Churki said. “Well, the buildings can wait, perhaps, but the spring planting cannot or we will have wasted the season—if you will send me a few men tomorrow, I shall show them how to make up a plow in my size, and then we can begin the plowing at once.”

“Oh, indeed?” said James, and they launched into a conversation about farming which lasted the better part of a half-hour and astonished Arthur entirely—how many fields she could plow in a day, and how many men she would need to do so; the proper ratio of fields to plant and to lie fallow; the variety of crops which could still be planted, this far into the season. James spoke to her as though she were one of his stewards, and by the time they departed had cheerfully agreed that Churki should build herself a pavilion on the eastern park overlooking the lake, not to mention the five men she would have for the plowing, and the promise of hiring both a secretary and arranging an account for her at the bank.

“Why, she is quite a sensible beast after all,” James remarked to Arthur, as they finally made their way back to the house. “I wouldn’t have thought a dragon would be so knowledgeable about agriculture, but she has surprised me—I daresay she’s a better farmer than half the gentlemen in the county.”

“You don’t object to having a dragon on the grounds?” Arthur asked. Not that he had any idea of what to do if James _had_ objected—but building a pavilion on the grounds was rather a more permanent welcome than Arthur had expected.

“She can plow fifteen acres a day, carry five wagon-loads at once, and she’s brought a king’s ransom with her in gold and jewels,” James said. “No, she can stay as long as she likes—she will be quite useful, I think.”

*

Arthur had not had much occasion to consider what a dragon could accomplish outside of a purely military context, but it seemed that fifteen acres a day was an underestimate if Churki cared to exert herself—and she did. Over the next few weeks she threw herself into the work with enthusiasm.

As for Arthur himself, he learned more about farming in a week than he had in all his previous thirty years combined. He could not say that he enjoyed it—if he had _wanted_ to be a farmer, instead of traveling the world, James would certainly have let him stay on to help with the estate—but the hired men had to be persuaded to work with a dragon even after they had been promised twice their normal wages. It was all well and good for James to say that the county had grown used to working with ferals, but another thing entirely to convince a man to clamber about the back of a moving hill with teeth and talons and enormous yellow eyes, which would complain if a rope or hook got caught on her wings, or rubbed her scales uncomfortably. Anyway, Churki could not handle their pay, and had to rely on Arthur to translate some of the design of the plow, which she had not yet learned the English words for; and of course the men had no Quechan.

“But perhaps I can teach you some words, if you should ever like to visit the Incan Empire,” Churki told them one day, when they had finished a little early. The men had grown accustomed enough to her, by then, to ask about her exotic plumage and conformation, and she had spent the day telling them about her home—describing in great detail the beauty of the lake where her clan lived, the gold and jewels in great abundance, all the delicacies particular to their feasts and the richness of the land, and the very many benefits of living in an ayllu with a strong and wise dragon to direct them.

“Very subtle,” Arthur told her that night, as that night he brought out her dinner to the beginnings of her pavilion. “I’m surprised you didn’t promise each a golden crown and three wives each, if they would go back with you; do you suppose any of them will take you up on it?”

Churki stopped eating to give him an affronted stare.

It was really astonishing, Arthur reflected, how much a dragon the size of a barn—and with no human features whatsoever—could so closely resemble his mother, had his mother encountered a relation she did not wish to acknowledge waving to her from the other side of an assembly hall.

“I do hope,” Churki said severely, “that you are joking, and did not mean to malign my character. I would hardly abandon you now, when we are here with your family—I am not going to leave you to take some other person back to my mother’s estate.”

Arthur put his hand on her foreleg, conciliatory. “Forgive me,” he said. “I _was_ joking, of course,” and surprised himself to find that he meant it—he could not imagine that Churki would leave him. “I was only curious why you tried so hard to convince them of the wonders of the Inca, if you had no intention of going back yourself.”

“Oh, well,” Churki said, looking a little more mollified, “I was thinking that I must not be selfish now that I have you. I have three brothers and sisters who have no human families of their own yet, and they would be perfectly pleased if some of those men would choose to go and start an ayllu with them. I am not _quite_ sure that they are mature enough,” she added. “My mother does not think they are ready for that responsibility yet. But I am sure she will help them manage, if they needed assistance, and in any case it will certainly be better for the men to go there and be taken care of, instead of staying _here_ , where they have no dragon at all.”

Arthur did not even bother bringing up the fact that most of those men had families and would be loathe to leave them. Churki would doubtless be perfectly happy to ship the entire lot—babes in arms, elderly mothers, embarrassing second cousins and drunk uncles included—off to her siblings, who would be equally delighted to receive them all. He was sure that the dragons would willingly pay the price of passage for all of them for such a prize.

“Perhaps they will spread the word in the village,” he said instead.

“That is all that can be hoped for,” Churki said, and settled back down to her dinner.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur fails to impress his nieces.

By the end of the month Arthur could not tell who was more satisfied with the results between the dragon, his brother, or the estate steward: the fields plowed; heaps of wood and stone brought in for rebuilding; the pavilion going up by the lake, in bits and pieces, as men were freed from the fields to help in construction. Even Julia was eventually won over by James’s enthusiastic praise of Churki’s abilities, and after only two weeks of hint-dropping on Arthur’s part, consented to take the girls out to the pavilion for a visit—a triumph which Arthur considered on the level of gaining an audience with the Duke of Yutang, or convincing the Tsar of Russia to take a loan of a mere million pounds when he had asked for half again that much.

Only his mother raised any objected to the visit, on the grounds that she did not want her granddaughters presenting themselves to a rampaging beast, and collared him after breakfast to say so before he could escape into the fields.

“Churki does not rampage,” Arthur protested, conveniently omitting the twenty years that she had spent in the Incan army, where she had almost certainly done her share of rampaging. “The girls will be perfectly safe, I assure you—she will treat them as though they were her own eggs.”

“What?” said his mother.

“Children, that is,” Arthur corrected himself. “Her own children.”

His mother gave him a strange look.

“I don’t know what you were thinking, bringing her here, or what your brother was thinking to let her stay,” the dowager Mrs. Hammond went on, and listed the inconveniences that this arrangement had caused: their neighbors were reluctant to call on them with a dragon camped on the lawn; the footmen were being corrupted with outlandish tales of golden cities in far-off lands; half the deer had been frightened away from the park; it had now become impossible to take the horses around the lake, as they would startle at the sight or smell of a dragon. This speech concluded with: ”She has been a great help with the planting, I’m sure, but now that the season is over surely there is nothing more for her to do?”

“Oh, well,” Arthur stammered, and seeing James passing through the hall nearby seized upon saying, “I believe James has a great deal other work for her, and he will be happy to tell you what needs to be done,” and ignoring his brother’s importuning look and taking advantage of his mother’s momentary distraction, Arthur sidled out the door and made his escape.

The visit with his nieces, at least, was a success. Arthur had chairs brought out to the lawn, as Churki’s pavilion was not quite complete, but although the girls were shy in approaching they made their curtsies without incident. Julia looked rather pale, and the nursemaid behind them wrung her hands as though she expected the dragon to eat them—despite Arthur’s repeated assurances that dragons did not find humans appetizing—but the girls themselves were too young to be properly afraid. And it seemed that their tutor—a young man who came by four times a week to teach them their letters—had a brother in the Aerial Corps and had been telling them a number of stories about the heroic dragons of Britain.

That Churki was not British, but Incan, was a distinction too fine for the girls to distinguish. “Have you been fighting the French with our uncle?” Jane asked immediately.

“Is that where you got all your gold?” Catherine wanted to know. “And your scars?”

“ _Catherine_ ,” Julia said, shocked. “Apologize at once, that is _not_ a proper question to ask—”

“Sorry,” Catherine said, trying and failing to look contrite.

“No, your uncle and I did not fight the French,” Churki said, amused. “He is a diplomat, and does not take part in battle.”

“What does a diplomat do?” Jane asked.

It was wonderful when young children took an interest in the delicate craft that was the foundation of foreign relations. “Diplomats meet with foreign leaders,” Arthur told her, “and we discuss agreements that would benefit both our countries, or advance a common cause, and we travel to other countries to strengthen the relationships between—”

“Oh, that is not interesting at all,” Catherine said, disappointed.

Seven years spent negotiating the labyrinthine courts of Imperial China helped Arthur keep his countenance, but it was a near thing.

“Your uncle was instrumental in bringing peace to Europe,” Churki said to the girls, bending her head with a confidential air. “Why, he _personally_ rescued the Tzar of Russia once, when we were in Dresden and the French were closing in...”

The story, only a little edited to be appropriate to their tender age, thoroughly enraptured the girls. Even Julia leaned towards to Arthur to ask in a whisper, “Is this true?”

“Yes, indeed,” Arthur assured her. “Although I am sorry to say that Marshal Kutuzov died shortly afterwards, despite our best efforts.”

“Good heavens,” Julia said wonderingly.

The visit lasted the appropriate half hour before the girls were bundled away by the nursemaid. Julia approached at last, when the footmen were gathering up the chairs and taking them back inside, to thank Churki for her help with the estate.

“James tells me that the plowing could not have been completed otherwise,” she said earnestly, “and so we are all in your debt. I _do_ apologize for the girls—I’m afraid their manners are not all that can be wished for.”

“They were everything delightful,” Churki assured her. “So clever, and very sensible girls for their age,” and went on in this vein for a few minutes longer, until Julia departed with the roseate glow of a mother encountering a kindred soul who had seen in her children all the wonderful qualities which she recognized herself.

Julia was so pleased, in fact, that a few days later she spoke to Arthur of her own accord to offer Arthur her assistance in the matter of finding Churki a secretary. It turned out that registry offices did not accept dragons as employers, and asking their neighbors had yielded only doubtful looks and a dearth of recommendations.

“I don’t know what a dragon would want with a secretary,” she began uncertainly, over tea one afternoon as they sat in the drawing room, “but if it’s anything like a lady’s companion...?”

Arthur tore his gaze away from the truly entertaining sight of his older brother imitating animal noises to amuse young Penelope, with Catherine and Jane on the sidelines calling out corrections—he had never thought that James would be so _domestic_ , but it seemed to suit him—and turned to look at his sister-in-law. “Something like,” he agreed. “Someone to read her letters, and write out her responses, and read books to her and fetch tea, and perhaps go into town to pick out some fabrics for her pavilion, that sort of thing.”

Mrs. Hammond, overhearing this conversation, looked up from her scone with a deep frown. She had recently taken the tactic that if the dragon could not be made to leave, at least she would not speak of it—but it seemed that this was too much for her.

“Who on earth is a dragon _writing letters_ to?” she wanted to know.

“Oh, other dragons mostly,” Arthur said, “Temeraire and Iskierka have written twice already, to share news,” which he politely did not call gossip though the letters might be more accurately termed as such: Temeraire had sent along a great deal of _on dits_ about the various society figures that Laurence had held dinner parties for, as they attempted to put some bill or other through Parliament, and Churki and Iskierka had been exchanging intelligence on various eligible ladies they had encountered and commiserating on Granby and Arthur’s perplexing stubbornness in refusing to marry any of them. “She has also received a letter from Sir Edward Howe—the dragon naturalist, you know—asking to study her conformation. And of course she must write to the bank.”

“I do not see,” his mother said, “why there is any _of course_ about it—why does she need to write to the bank?”

So Arthur had to explain to his astonished mother that many dragons had bank accounts now, but would naturally need a human to write out drafts on their account. Churki had not been able to take the greater part of her treasure with her, as they had been busy making their escape with the Incan Army on their tails, but she had carried with her the golden rings pierced through the edge of her wings and jeweled chains on her harness. She had been pleased to discover that gold was rather more precious in England than back home, and even more pleased to discover the concept of interest, whereby her gold might be held by a bank and multiply itself, and had sold a quantity of gold and jewels for a respectable sum: nearly four thousand pounds.

“And she has ten times as much back home, she tells me,” Arthur said, to general astonishment; even James had not known the details of the account which Arthur had arranged for her.

“Uncle Arthur’s rich!” Catherine cheered.

“No, no, it’s is not _my_ money,” Arthur said hastily. He still had his salary of two hundred pounds a year from the Foreign Office—they had offered him a considerably larger sum to retire outright, but Arthur still held hope for the resurrection of his diplomatic career—as well as some considerations made for him in his father’s will, so he was hardly in dire straits. and felt no need to lay claim to Churki’s hoard. But it took a few moments to convince his nieces that he did not have a solid gold tea service hidden away in his luggage.

Eventually his brother distracted them again with the prospect of a picnic the next day, and Julia returned to their conversation. “I have a distant relation,” she told him, “who is a widow—her husband died in France. She has a perfectly serviceable education. And there is a cottage near the lake which James can rent to you, if your beast would care to mend the roof before she comes.”

“That would certainly be an acceptable arrangement,” Arthur said, “if she does not mind that she will be in service to a dragon—”

“She will be quite grateful for the work,” Julia assured him. She hesitated a moment, and then said: “She does have a child—a young son, that she must bring with her, for she has no one else to see to him—but I daresay that a dragon will not mind?”

Well, that certainly explained why this widow had not already found a position as a governess or a lady’s companion so far; few households would welcome another child underfoot, and taking away the attention of the governess from their own children. “Churki will certainly not mind,” Arthur told her. In fact he would have to give her a stern talk on the matter of hired servants, who ought _not_ to be properly considered part of her ayllu; she had been shocked, last week, when one of the footmen turned in his notice to take another position elsewhere.

“Very well,” Julia said, sounding relieved. “I shall write to her at once.”

Beside them, Mrs. Hammond thoughtfully ate her scone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I super appreciate all the reviews! I know this isn't as popular as the shipping fics (and, despite Churki's best efforts, will probably not turn into a shipping fic) so thanks for staying with me, y'all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Churki hosts a musicale, and Arthur makes an unexpected announcement.

Arthur did not think any more of this conversation, besides to acquire Churki’s permission for the scheme, until two days later when he left breakfast to find his mother waiting for him in her second-best morning dress.

“I believe,” she announced, “it’s time for me to meet that dragon of yours.”

“She’s not my dragon,” Arthur said, or wanted to say; but interrupted himself with “I thought you didn’t approve of great ravening beasts eating us out of house and home?”

“Oh, well,” Mrs. Hammond said, waving her hand dismissively. “I can hardly turn her out now, now that the girls are so fond of her. Shall we go? You shall have to introduce us, of course.”

Flabbergasted at her sudden reversal of opinion, Arthur nonetheless had no other option but to take her to Churki’s pavilion.

His mother looked around curiously as they entered. The pavilion floor was simple cement, with a heating system beneath that apparently a dragon had devised particularly for that purpose; the wall pillars and the skeleton of the roof were stout wooden beams, and the roof itself covered in tiles which Churki had carried in, after buying out three warehouses in Leeds. The walls had not yet been added, but there was a heap of stone outside waiting, and the unfinished nature of the pavilion had not stopped Churki from beginning to decorate: swatches of fabric hanging from the pillars, so she could decide which color she liked best when the walls were complete; a design of water and flowers, intended for a mosaic, scratched out by claw on the pavilion floor; a set of twelve crystal lamps placed around the edge of the pavilion, which Churki had seen the design for in a painting and had immediately bullied Arthur into ordering them made for her, despite his protestations as to both the cost and the impracticality.

There was also jumble of furniture in the corner, less decorative, which was Arthur’s fault; but Churki used her tail to nudge the screen so that the worst of it was covered, and lifted her head to greet them.

“Arthur tells me you mean to make a home for yourself in this neighborhood,” his mother said, once the introductions had been complete, and brushing aside entirely Arthur’s attempt to talk about the weather. “Have you met many of our neighbors yet?”

“You must know that she has not,” Arthur said, exasperated—not entirely true, as the Fairwells and the Warrens had hired her for some work, but clearly that was not the same as meeting them socially, which his mother very well knew was impossible for a dragon.

“But I would certainly like to,” Churki put in, a speculative glint in her eye.

“You certainly cannot go to an assembly,” Mrs. Hammond said decisively, “and that is the usual way, so we must be more creative. Perhaps a picnic, or an outdoor musicale?”

“An excellent suggestion,” said Churki. “But Arthur tells me that I may not invite someone unless we have previously been introduced, or if we have some acceptable connection?”

“It will be perfectly acceptable for me to invite them on your behalf,” Mrs. Hammond assured her, and they fell to planning at once, with Arthur being dispatched to fetch a chair for his mother and otherwise entirely ancillary to the conversation. It reminded him of being nineteen and restless, listening to the matrons gossiping in his mother’s drawing room as the family entertained morning callers.

And Churki was a matron with a purpose. With a conversational deftness that Arthur wished he could cultivate—he had achieved most of his diplomatic success through stubbornness rather than any application of tact—she turned the discussion towards, once again, his family.

“No, no, James’s girls are too young to attend such an event,” Mrs. Hammond was saying. “I’m afraid they will be quickly bored, and begin to sulk, and forget their manners—even at something so informal as a picnic—but I do thank you for remembering them.”

“I understand perfectly,” Churki said. “But Arthur told me that he has many nieces and nephews,” three dozen being rather an exaggeration, which Arthur had excused on the grounds of being distracted by the rampaging dragon army chasing them out of Brazil, “and perhaps some of them might like to come? And his siblings as well, of course.”

Arthur looked at his mother to see her reaction to this unsolicited invitation, and was surprised to see her looking as though she were considering it.

“Do you know,” she said slowly, “I had been thinking of inviting Charlotte to visit us this summer,” this being Arthur’s eldest sister, who lived a few towns away. “Her eldest daughter is seventeen, and I daresay she could use some experience being out in society. A musicale may be just the place to start.”

“I look forward to meeting them,” Churki said. “And I believe Arthur has another sister as well, currently in Brighton? And a younger brother? We must invite them, and their families.”

Mrs. Hammond wrinkled her brow. “For a musicale in two week’s time?”

Arthur, seeing where the conversation was headed, tried to intervene. “It would not at all be prudent to invite them when they do not live nearby—sending the invitation alone will take a week—”

“Oh, it would be no trouble at all for me to fly there and fetch them,” Churki said, waving aside his protest with a flip of her wings. “Brighton is only a day’s flight away, after all. And we can send a message by courier, which will be _much_ faster than the mail coach—I’m sure one of the ferals will be happy to oblige us.”

It took Arthur some energy to persuade Churki that his sister Isabelle, her husband, and their six children—all of them under the age of ten, and the youngest not even a year old—would not be amenable to being strapped onto a dragon for eight hours of flying, no matter how excellent the musicale was promised to be; neither would his brother, currently residing with a great-uncle in Yorkshire, appreciate being descended upon in such a manner. Churki shook her head at the backwardness of English civilization, where families lived so far apart that no one could look after them all properly.

“They will come to visit at Christmas,” Arthur said, with which she had to be content, although she and Mrs. Hammond shared a moment of commiseration that her children did not visit as often as they ought, before the conversation moved on to which desserts might be appropriate to be served at an open-air musicale.

*

“I have been a diplomat for nearly a decade,” Arthur said to his mother a few days later, not bothering to keep the accusatory tone from his voice, as she sat at her writing-desk making out invitations, “so I hope you do not think that I don’t know what you’re doing.”

His mother did not even bother to look up. “I am immeasurably glad,” said Mrs. Hammond, “to learn that ten years in the courts of China have imparted upon you the wisdom to recognize when a lady is writing a letter and does not wish to be disturbed.”

Arthur put his diplomatic training to good use and ignored this remark. “I have spoken to James, _and_ to Julia— _and_ to the housekeeper!—that there was no such mention of Charlotte coming to stay at all this spring, not until you hit upon this idea of a musicale—and how on earth you came up with _that_ , I have no notion—”

“Because Churki had expressed a wish to hear some English music,” Mrs. Hammond said, as though this was any explanation.

“I was speaking of your sudden interest in arranging entertainments for a dragon,” said Arthur.

“Well, you can hardly expect Julia to be playing hostess for her,” Mrs. Hammond said tartly. “She is quite busy with the household, and the girls, and the tenants. It is no trouble for me to arrange a few entertainments.”

“At her expense, of course,” Arthur said. “And on Charlotte’s behalf?”

His mother did look up at this, frowning at him severely. Miss Charlotte Hammond’s marriage to Mister Ethan Bates eighteen years ago had been a contentious affair. Arthur had been barely ten at the time, and his brother Peter even younger, but even in the schoolroom they had recognized that their parents had not approved of the match—though not enough to outright forbid it. Mr. Bates had been unfortunate enough to be born to the third daughter of a cotton-mill merchant, who had married a country gentleman with her extensive dowry, but the son himself none of the wealth that might make such a connection palatable. From what Arthur gathered from their letters, Charlotte and her husband lived comfortably enough—but invitations were sadly lacking, which would be an obstacle to making a respectable match for Sarah, their eldest.

“I am thinking,” Mrs. Hammond said now, “of my granddaughter’s future. And I am thinking that if this dragon of yours wishes to look after our family, then perhaps we ought to let her; it is a sad state of affairs, but it seems that having a dragon as a hostess is still better than having a merchant for a relation.”

“I hope,” Arthur said, “that serving as a hostess is the extent of your expectations for Churki’s contribution to your grandchildren’s future, and that no hints will be made to her that would impose upon her unduly, or otherwise take advantage of her generosity.”

“I will certainly make no such hints,” his mother said, her brows snapping together in disapproval. “Good heavens, Arthur, I am astonished that you would think so. I am certainly not so ill-bred as that.”

Arthur had built his career on the principle that it was better to speak bluntly and beg pardon for any offense, rather than risk a misunderstanding through an excess of tact, so he moved onward to offering his apologies, which his mother accepted with a raised eyebrow.

“We may as well start thinking of your future, as well,” she called after him, as he excused himself. “Now that you are home, you ought to be thinking of marriage, and I have made a list of several girls who I believe would suit you quite well—”

“Good God,” said Arthur, and fled the battlefield.

*

Having thus assured himself of his mother’s intentions, Arthur now turned his efforts towards avoiding his family, friends, and neighbors, who began to descend upon them as the date of the musicale drew near. Invitations had gone out through the neighborhood, and his mother was suddenly receiving an influx of callers; the drawing room was filled for hours on end with distant relations that he had never met, curious neighbors dropping in on the flimsiest pretexts, and old acquaintances he had not spoken to in more than a decade, all of them wishing to know more about Arthur’s travels and what he had done during the war and how he had acquired a dragon. Arthur did not dislike company—he could hardly have become a diplomat if he felt any discomfort at being pressed for conversation—but the conversations he was having now were a great deal more _personal_ than what he was accustomed to.

And it had to be admitted, Arthur reflected grimly, that a number of those visitors were young ladies of marriageable age who had found themselves invited to perform at the musicale, which gave them an excellent excuse to visit, and all of them had a great many inquiries about his knighthood and his expectations and whether he had a townhouse in London, and if not, what were his plans to acquire one? Arthur extricated himself from these conversations as quickly as he was able, and shamelessly used Churki as an excuse—“I must see to her feeding,” he would say, edging out the door, or “she will be needing me to write a letter,” and soon hit upon the scheme of moving out of the house entirely, as soon as his sister arrived.

Charlotte had come with not one but both of her daughters: Sarah, seventeen, and Chloe, sixteen; not to mention the usual number of maids and coachmen. Arthur instantly endeared himself to both his nieces by offering to give up his room, so that the girls would not have to share, and taking up residence in Churki’s pavilion.

“It will be no trouble, I assure you,” he said, in answer to his sister’s doubtful look, “the pavilion is quite comfortable now—she has set aside a portion of the space for human habitation, and there are a few maids there already.”

“Well,” said his sister; but as Sarah and Chloe appeared to be in the middle of some sort of adolescent squabble, and were refusing to address each other directly, she did not put up more than a token protest. And if removing himself from the house had the happy consequence that he was no longer expected at morning calls—or at least, could not be complained at, if he did not show up until early afternoon—well, that was a sacrifice he was willing to make. And Churki considered having him closer at hand (or talon) to be only natural, and pressed him into service in polishing the pieces she had kept of her jewelry, which she intended to wear for the event.

*

The day of the musicale dawned with scattered clouds, which burned away quickly in the early summer sunshine; by early afternoon, the sky was clear and bright as the footmen moved about the lawn to set up the chairs and stage under Mrs. Hammond’s supervision, while in the kitchen Julia oversaw the preparation of refreshments, and Charlotte took charge of the assorted younger girls to gather flowers for decorations.

Arthur discovered, to his dismay, that Churki had a streak of vanity heretofore hidden by her very strong sense of decorum: she had not thought it appropriate to take attention away from Laurence, in his capacity as adopted son of China or as Admiral of the Air—or, for that matter, to detract from Granby’s role as reluctant suitor to Empress Anahuarque—and so she had not insisted on showing him off. Now, however, she _did_ insist, on the unfortunately entirely reasonable grounds that this was _her_ party.

“You must wear your medals,” she reminded him severely, as he was dressing with the assistance of his brother’s stone-faced valet—and it had to be admitted that dressing behind a screen, while a great yellow eye watched him from above it as Churki’s head was too small to fit into the space, was not a toilette that he preferred, “no, that that coat, Chambers, it must be the blue, to better show off his knighthood—and do not forget the cravat-pin, Arthur, the sapphire was specially bought to go with the coat—” and so on, until Arthur was deeply regretting his lack of wife, so that Churki could go and fuss at her instead; the dragon had often expressed a wish to bedeck that hypothetical lady with as many jewels as she could wear, once it had been explained to Churki that English men were not in the habit of adorning themselves necklaces, bracelets, earrings, or tiaras on any occasion whatsoever.

The guests began arriving at four. Churki and Mrs. Hammond had agreed between them that they should begin with a small, intimate affair, which meant that Arthur only needed to make two dozen introductions instead of the usual fifty. He stood by Churki’s head—the rest of her was curled in a half-circle around the stage and the neat rows of chairs, cleverly arranged so that she might provide protection with one wing in the event of a sudden rain-burst—and answered a great many inane questions which were directed to them: no, Churki was not a Chinese dragon; yes, she could speak English perfectly well, thank you; no, she would not be playing an instrument during the performance.

This last question was asked by a completely sincere Miss Lucy Williams, who would be playing the violin. Arthur had to exert a considerable effort to answer her in the same spirit, without embarrassing her; he was immensely relieved when his mother announced that everyone should take their seats as the program was about to begin.

The purpose of any musicale was, of course, to display the talents of the young ladies performing. Arthur clapped politely over a series of duets, pianoforte pieces, and Miss Williams’ somewhat uninspired violin sonata—Churki was rather more enthusiastic, clicking her talons against the flagstone path and calling out, “Bravo!” at the end of each performance—and was entirely ready, by the time intermission came around, for a refreshing glass of champagne and something to eat, having never developed the musical inclination that might have made such an entertainment more enjoyable.

He managed the first, but not the second. By the time he had retrieved a glass of champagne from a passing footman, Churki had gathered a handful of the girls who had already performed to compliment them on their playing, and she called over the crowd, “Arthur, do come here and tell these ladies what you thought of their pieces,” whereupon duty obligated him to do as she had asked.

Arthur did not notice the trap that had been set for him until it was too late. Between delivering a compliment to his niece Chloe, who had played the pianoforte, and turning to praise Miss Jane Warren for her singing, he found himself to be in the middle of a group of no fewer than _three_ unattached young ladies of marriageable age—not counting his niece, of course—and all of them under the watchful and interested gaze of two mamas (pretending to be engaged in conversation with each other), a spinster aunt acting as chaperone, his own mother (pretending to make conversation with the spinster aunt), and worst of all Churki, who was not even pretending.

“And Miss Victoria wishes to know what kind of instruments they play in China,” said this meddlesome beast, nudging over a _fourth_ young lady to replace Chloe, who had no interested in her frumpy old uncle’s marriage prospects and had accordingly wandered off to the refreshment tables. “Arthur, can you answer her?”

“I—I was just wondering,” stammered Miss Victoria, whose courage, at least, had to be admired in accepting a dragon’s conversational lead, “if the ladies of China played the pianoforte?”

“Ah—no,” said Arthur, “not the pianoforte, but they have a number of stringed instruments, which they display at recitals such as this.”

Miss Warren responded to this rather weak answer with a flutter of her eyelashes and a, “Oh, Sir Hammond, you are so well-traveled!”

Having never been the target of matrimonial hopes before—not in China and certainly not in the wilds of Australia and Brazil—Arthur found himself unable to make an adequate reply that would deter her hopes without giving offense. “Thank you,” he said awkwardly. “Do you like to travel, Miss Warren?”

“I have never had the opportunity to go further than Devonshire,” she confessed, “but I would so love to visit France, now that the war is over! And perhaps even one day as far as China,” an obvious hint.

Arthur was saved from having to respond to this by Miss Lucy Williams—who, not to be outdone—was bold enough to ask, “Will you be returning to China once you are married, Sir Hammond?”

“I am not certain,” said Arthur, feeling increasingly trapped. “Marriage is not, of course, something to rush into—”

“Nor is it something to be put off,” Churki said sternly from above their heads, prompting a round of nodding from the matrons watching in the background.

“What would you look for in a marriage?” asked Miss Warren. “Would you say that musical ability is a requirement?”

“While such an accomplishment is certainly praiseworthy,” Arthur said, feeling the cold clutch of dread creeping through his heart as all the ladies turned hopeful expressions upon him, “I find that I am unable to answer this question, as I have not assembled a list of such requirements.”

“But then how will you know what to look for?” exclaimed Miss Isabella Winter.

“The qualities I am seeking cannot be so easily enumerated,” Arthur said, in increasing desperation, “but I believe my heart will tell me when I have found a good match.”

“What?” said Churki.

“What?” said Mrs. Hammond, who had given up the pretense of not eavesdropping, and was turning on him with a frown.

Miss Warren gasped. “Oh, Sir Hammond, surely you don’t mean—?”

“Yes,” declared Arthur. “I _do_ mean it—I will marry only for love!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra-long chapter this time, because I particularly wanted to end on that line :D
> 
> Can you believe that I thought this story would be over in five chapters, max? Now I'm aiming for 10.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur faces the natural consequences of his declaration.

“Oh, but of course you must marry for love!” Julia exclaimed.

This unexpected support came over luncheon the next day, as Mrs. Hammond—in what Arthur felt were needlessly scandalized tones—relayed the highlights of yesterday’s conversation to the family, ending with an imitation of Arthur’s impassioned outburst that would’ve been more at home on a stage than over a plate of peas and halibut. Julia, normally reticent, had immediately spoken up in Arthur’s defense, to Arthur’s great surprise.

“James and I married for love,” she went on, gazing at her husband, “and it has been the most wonderful decision we ever made—I cannot possibly imagine being even half this happy with anyone else.”

“Quite right, my dear,” said James, taking her hand in an adoring fashion.

“Yes, well,” Mrs. Hammond said, grudgingly, “I cannot deny that _this_ match has turned out quite well, but that cannot be said of _all_ such matches—”

Charlotte, sitting next to Arthur, leaned over to whisper an explanation in his ear. “Mother didn’t approve of the match at first,” she murmured, “as Julia had no dowry to speak of, but James quite insisted. And Mother came around eventually, after Catherine was born.”

This speech likely glossed over a great many difficulties that Julia had overcome, Arthur thought. One would not think of it to look at her now, exchanging smiles with James, as across the table Mrs. Hammond went on about the foibles of youth, the folly of love matches, and the damage that unrestrained romanticism could do to one’s purse and reputation. Arthur felt that he himself could never tolerate such difficulties in the name of something as ephemeral as love, until he remembered that he had backed himself into a corner yesterday by vowing to do just that.

“And you and Ethan?” he asked in an undertone to Charlotte. “Were you a love match also?”

“Oh, well,” said his sister, looking a bit embarrassed, and stammered something about growing more fond of each other with time, by which Arthur gathered that the eighteen-year-old Charlotte had married her husband to escape from the bosom of her natal family, a sentiment which at the moment he could very well sympathize with.

“—and this foolish modern notion has ruined many a young lady,” Mrs. Hammond was concluding, “as most of them haven’t half your sense, Julia, and will make a perfect cake of themselves over any man that shows to advantage in a military coat.”

“I think it’s romantic,” Sarah said wistfully from the far end of the table. She had shown to advantage yesterday on the pianoforte, and looked charming today with her hair in some sort of ringlets, which Arthur had taken care to compliment—young ladies could get into all sorts of sulks if one didn’t notice their wardrobe. “And I don’t think I would like to marry someone _just_ because he were an army captain, or some such.”

“You would be poor, like lots of girls who marry for love,” said Chloe, with a toss of her head that indicated that she thought her sister’s remark very silly. “You couldn’t buy a new bonnet every month, like you do now—”

Sarah was old enough to be considered out, but perhaps not entirely wise enough to be so, for she flared up at once at this provocation. “I would much rather have true love than any number of bonnets!”

“Girls,” Charlotte said warningly.

“You wouldn’t recognize true love if it bit you on the face,” Chloe retorted, which unreasonably earned _Arthur_ a glare from Mrs. Hammond, who said, “Now see what you’ve done, putting ideas into the girls’ heads—”

“One might marry for love _and_ afford new bonnets,” Julia said firmly. “There is no reason why one must always be choosing between one or the other.”

“But if you _had_ to choose—” Chloe began.

“Time for dessert, I think,” said James, and rescued them all by hastily waving for the footmen to bring the next course.

*

Arthur escaped from this fraught discussion at the house to Churki’s pavilion, where he was immediately embroiled in another fraught discussion, despite his best attempts to talk about the weather.

“Never mind that,” she said, frowning at him over a bowl of tea, which she was taking in the Chinese fashion. “We must get to work at once if you are to be properly married, which you _do_ insist on.”

“What?” said Arthur.

“Unless you’ve changed your mind about that?” she asked, experimentally.

“What?” said Arthur. And then, remembering Miss Merkelyte, “No, certainly _not_ —”

“Then as I said, we must get to work at once,” Churki said. “Your mother and I were speaking last night—”

“Oh, no,” said Arthur, in horror.

“—and we have decided that the best course of action will be to have more intimate events, although Julia has informed me that a ball or two will not go awry, and are in fact expected—”

“I’m sure no one is expecting a ball,” Arthur said feebly.

“—of course we have not yet had time to work out all the details, but we must start by choosing events where you will not show to disadvantage. Naturally we must consider Sarah as well,” Churki said, contemplative, while Arthur sat down heavily on a nearby footstool, “but your mother and I are agreed that _she_ is still quite young, and needs more experience before she will be quite ready to marry, but _you_ are nearly thirty and ought not to delay.”

“I hardly think there is any urgency—”

Churki put her head down to give him a stern look, shaking out her ruff so that the gold chains made a great clinking sound that drowned out his protests.

“Do you insist on marriage?” she asked.

“Yes, but—”

“And you won’t marry except for love?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“And you do not have a woman which you love, and would like to marry, at the moment?”

“No, but—”

“Then,” Churki said, with finality, “we must find this woman at once, so that you may marry her and begin to have children. My mother has watched over thirteen generations of humans, and she has observed that men who have children later in life—after thirty-five, particularly—have fewer children then men who being earlier, such as at twenty, over the same period of time. So the sooner you begin, the better, because otherwise it will be too late before you know it.”

“But I do not see why this necessitates a ball,” Arthur said weakly.

“Not _only_ a ball,” Churki said. “We will have picnics, and dinners, and perhaps another musicale, as this one was such a success. But you must see that we must have many events, and invite a great many people, so that you can meet as many young ladies as possible and fall in love with one. After all,” she went on practically, “how can you fall in love with someone you have never met?”

“Oh, dear God,” said Arthur.

“And of course _I_ will be satisfied with anyone you should like to choose,” Churki said, “even if she did not have any treasure, or any accomplishments, as long as _you_ wanted her and she is young enough to bear a great many children. But your mother is convinced that there are not too many suitable ladies in the neighborhood, so we have decided that if you do not find anyone you like this year, next year we shall go to London and you shall have a Season. And Sarah as well,” she added, as an afterthought. “And your younger brother also, who I hear is not married either—you really must be setting a better example for him.”

In China Arthur had naturally acquainted himself with as many of the local customs as he could, not only to avoid giving offense to his hosts, but also due to a natural curiosity to delve more into a culture so different from his own. In this way he had learned of the concept of karma, central to Buddhism. Arthur admitted that he was not an expert in the tenets of the faith, and was quite likely misinterpreting some key aspect of the idea—but he could not help but feel that his current situation, so antithetical to his own desires, was karmic retribution for his admitted lack of concern for Granby’s desires when he had thrust her before the Empress Inca.

“What do you have there?” Churki, having finished her litany of demands as well as her tea, set the bowl aside and nosed at the parcel that Arthur had brought with him. Julia had pressed it into his hands as he had been leaving the house, and he had dropped it on the floor, entirely forgotten, when Churki had mentioned the ball.

“Romance novels,” Arthur said, his face in his hands. “Julia gave them to me to read to you for inspiration.”

“Why, what an excellent idea!” Churki was pleased. “I have little notion of how you English go about these things, so I am sure these will be very educational.” She settled back, folding her wings about her. “You may read to me,” she announced, as grandly as a duchess, “until tea-time; I’m sure that will suit us very well.”

Arthur asked with a sinking feeling, “What happens at tea-time?”

“I have invited your mother for tea, of course,” Churki said. “We will have to discuss our schedule for this summer and fall, so that we may best find you a wife. Are you fond of poetry, Arthur? We _must_ have a recital—it is quite traditional, in my mother’s ayllu.”

*

Bonus—an excerpt from _An Innocent in London: The Courtship of Miss Clarke_ (i.e., Julia’s favorite book, or why it is necessary to have a ball):

_Amelia could not help but catch her breath as she entered the glittering ballroom; none of the assemblies in Norwich had prepared her for such a scene, with a profusion of candles on every surface, and all the gentlemen and ladies dressed so finely, in the height of fashion, and the candles shining brightly on their jewels. As a humble vicar’s youngest daughter she felt herself out of place, for she had no jewels, and her gown was two years out of fashion [...]_

_Across the room, Mr. Barton had just caught sight of the lovely young miss that had entered the ballroom, her radiant beauty so entrancing that he had no trouble following her movement even through the crowd, and he swallowed the last of his champagne and vowed that he would find someone to beg an introduction. [...]_


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur goes flying with a number of ladies.

Between Churki and his mother Arthur found himself entirely without a refuge. They had joined forces to create not only a demanding social calendar for the rest of the summer, but also a list of the most eligible (and some not-so-eligible) ladies of the neighborhood, both of which he was forced to memorize. At the house his mother peppered him with questions about the events he had attended; at the pavilion Churki wanted to know what he thought of every lady he had come across; in the background, James and Julia acted as a Greek chorus encouraging him in his quest for love. After barely a week—that is, two teas, a luncheon, and a morning ride that ended in an abrupt and embarrassing tumble—Arthur was ready to move to Australia.

He was so desperate, in fact, that he volunteered to chaperone his nieces Sarah and Chloe on a shopping trip into town rather than attend yet another tea. Churki offered to fly them there—to his surprise an offer cheerfully accepted by both girls, on the grounds that it would be much faster than taking the carriage, and also “Uncle Arthur has flown _thousands_ of times, Mother, surely it can’t be so improper,” which arguments Charlotte reluctantly bowed to. And it was indeed a mark of how high Churki had risen in his family’s esteem that even his mother contented herself with a muttered, “Why, in _my_ day,” and no further protests.

They set out early the next morning in what the Aerial Corps would have called ‘half-harness’: a number of straps around her chest and forelegs, meeting across her back, and then another strap running down her spine where it met a loop around her waist behind her wings. To this Arthur and his nieces attached themselves with carabiners, overseen by an anxious Charlotte.

“There is no need for concern, the fittings are quite secure,” Churki reassured her, while Arthur showed the girls how to place their feet, and how to arrange the carabiners so that at least one was attached at all times, to prevent any accidents. “Why, we flew across all of Russia in the dead of winter in these, with no trouble.”

Arthur, at the moment climbing into position at the curve of Churki’s back, was too far away to hear his sister’s reply, but one glance at her pale expression told him that she was perhaps not as reassured as one might hope at hearing this statement.

“Yes, of course I will be careful,” Churki was saying, and lifting her head up craned back to watch them. “Arthur, are you ready? Are the girls secure?”

“Nearly,” he called back. Sarah was having some trouble arranging her skirts—no wonder the women of the Aerial Corps never bothered with them, the fabric would be forever getting tangled with the harness-straps—but after a moment she waved to indicate that she was ready. The girls were sitting nearly side-saddle, as their skirts made anything else impossible, but to compensate Arthur had added a pair of extra carabiners to hold them in place, which he thought would serve. “Remember,” he told the girls, “ _don’t_ try to stand up, or you’ll almost certainly lose your balance, which will be unpleasant midair. Any questions?”

They both shook their heads. Sarah was looking a bit pale now that she was actually aboard, but Arthur was more concerned about Chloe, who merely looked excited and therefore was much more likely to run into trouble. Well, it was only fifteen minutes to town. Turning, he called to Churki, “All right, I think we’re ready—”

“Very well,” Churki said, and heaved herself to her feet, eliciting a startled gasp from Sarah. “Hold on,” she warned.

And, snapping open her wings, she went aloft.

*

“There, there, Uncle Arthur,” Sarah said, patting him soothingly on the back while Arthur held on for dear life and tried not to retch. “It’ll only be a few more minutes, and we won’t do it again—and Chloe is _very_ sorry, isn’t she?” This last statement delivered with a glare to the offending party.

“Indeed I am,” said Chloe, who, in Arthur’s opinion, did not look nearly contrite enough. “I had only wanted to see what it might be like—but next time we shall try it when you are not aboard, I had no idea that you would feel so unwell.”

“Next time,” Arthur managed, “we are going to _walk_.”

Churki looked over his shoulder at him; _she_ did not look contrite at all. “Well, Arthur,” she said, “I won’t do it again if you so dislike it, but I didn’t think you would take it so amiss—”

Arthur did not have the breath to shout at her, or even to glare, so he just put his forehead down against the warm hide of her back and wished for death.

“—a very quick roll,” Churki was saying, “which we did to entertain the children all the time, in my mother’s ayllu—there really was no need for all that _shrieking_.”

*

They landed on the outskirts of town without any further aerial acrobatics. Arthur followed his nieces to the shops, waiting patiently while they tried on and discarded a truly astonishing number of ribbons, and gave his opinion with avuncular indulgence when they asked which bonnets would look the most fetching. Shopping—or rather, watching the girls shop and carrying their parcels—was not generally on his list of favorite activities, but the reprieve from having to make small talk with eligible young ladies under the speculative eyes of half a dozen matrons was welcome.

This pleasant state of affairs might have continued until luncheon, except that the girls by chance encountered Miss Victoria Warren her sister Miss Anne at the bookstore. Miss Anne was of an age with Sarah and Chloe, and the three of them naturally swept off together chattering, but as Miss Victoria was a good five years older than her sister, this left her with Arthur.

Churki could not have arranged things more conveniently if she had tried. Arthur tried not to audibly grind his teeth.

Only grim resignation saw him through until luncheon. Arthur did his best not to be rude to Miss Victoria, who after all had done nothing more than set her cap at a man widely rumored to be in search of a wife (and as those rumors had been put about by his own mother, they were considered more credible than most). Miss Victoria, for her part, gamely engaged him in conversation about his travels, which Arthur described in as unappealing a light as possible.

“Why, I never knew ships were so uncomfortable,” Miss Victoria said, her eyes wide, as Arthur told her about the disastrous trip to South America where they had been, in short order: on fire, nearly drowned, captured by the French, and then marooned. “Or—or so prone to sinking. You must be very brave, to attempt all these journeys in the course of your duty.”

“Well,” said Arthur, attempting to sound modest, “a diplomat’s life is full of danger and discomfort, but it must be done.”

“But you are retired now, are you not, Sir Hammond?”

Arthur did grind his teeth at that. “On _temporary_ leave,” he said, “to spend some time with my family.”

“I see,” said Miss Victoria, whose doubtful look left little question to what exactly the rumor mill had made of his career. Well, Arthur would not be put off by mere rumors—he _would_ be a diplomat again, in active service, even if he had to personally go to Whitehall and beg them to send him to China again so that he wouldn’t have to get married.

Of course it wasn’t _quite_ as easy as that. Arthur brooded over the problem over luncheon, and by the time they returned to Sorrel Park was no closer to finding a way to get himself reinstated.

“I really am going to go mad, otherwise,” Arthur said to James later, unburdening himself over their customary after-dinner port in the library. “I am not made for this—this _courting_. If I have to listen to one more insipid performance on the pianoforte—”

“You’ve met every eligible woman in the county,” James said. “There isn’t _anyone_ you like? Or might consider liking?”

“What I liked was my career,” Arthur said grimly.

“Well, if none of them catch your eye,” James said, with a resigned sigh, “then you might as well marry some senior diplomat’s daughter or niece or some such—that will get you reinstated, at least. Of course,” James added, catching Arthur’s expression, “if you were hoping to accomplish that _without_ getting married—well, I don’t have any ideas.”

Arthur groaned.

“By the way,” James said, “Catherine has been begging me to let her fly with Churki, ever since she heard that Sarah and Chloe were allowed to go. I don’t suppose you could take her up for five minutes without letting Mother know?”

Arthur was perfectly willing to use his nieces to distract his dragon from marrying him off to the first woman to accept his proposal; the only aspect missing from this plan was how to distract his mother, but half a plan was better than no plan at all.

“Certainly,” said Arthur. “I shall ask her tomorrow—maybe she’ll let me off the tea at the Fairwells,” he added, though without much hope.

*

“Why, of course we can go flying with Catherine,” Churki said, pleased, when Arthur brought up the subject the next morning. “I really do not understand your British customs—whoever heard of a child being too young to go aloft? It’s as natural as walking—but in any case, we cannot do it today. Have you forgotten that we are to fetch Mrs. Carter this afternoon?”

He had not forgotten, but— “Your lady’s companion?” he inquired. (Or dragon’s companion, as it were.) “Surely you don’t mean that we should go and fetch her ourselves?”

“Indeed I do,” Churki said, peering down at him sternly. “What kind of welcome would it be if we made her walk the six miles from town? She has written that she will be coming by mail-coach, and will not have a horse.”

Arthur was well aware of the neglect that often came with the part of being a governess or a paid companion, but he could hardly imagine forcing anyone—much less a widow with a young child and all their luggage—to walk six miles over muddy country lanes.

“I thought that we might send a carriage,” he ventured; the usual way of doing things, not to mention the likely reaction a gently-bred woman might have to being descended upon by a dragon. “If she not accustomed to dragons—”

“She will be working for a dragon,” that dragon declared, “so we had best accustom her straightaway,” an argument for which Arthur had no answer. He found himself strapping onto Churki’s back that afternoon for another flight into town, with a couple of extra oilskins in case the weather turned; not even the threat of rain portended by the low clouds had changed Churki’s mind about the carriage.

“It will still be much faster to fly, and what if the carriage should get stuck in mud?” she’d said. And so they had been off.

There was not enough room in the courtyard of the posting-inn for Churki to land, so Arthur went the last quarter mile into town on foot, and arrived a little after two to a scene of organized chaos as the mail-coach unloaded passengers and luggage, switched horses, exchanged mail, and took on more passengers, all in the space of a few minutes. Arthur carefully sidled around the edge of the courtyard, looking for a blonde woman of middle years with a boy in tow, and a heap of luggage. He found only a brown-haired matron—who was far too busy greeting what looked like her sister to be Mrs. Carter—and was finally left in bewilderment, staring around at the empty courtyard as the mail-coach rolled back out.

“I don’t suppose she came by an earlier stagecoach, instead?” Arthur asked the stable boy loitering in the corner.

The boy shrugged, uninterested, and pointed at the inn. “Maybe she’s inside,” he said.

Arthur sighed and headed towards the public house, considering that he might as well check. It would be inconvenient if she had missed the mail coach and was coming by a later stagecoach today—they would have no way of knowing which one—or even worse, if she had decided to wait until tomorrow—

But as he pushed open the door he had a stroke of luck: a woman’s voice, saying, “—certain there isn’t a carriage? The Hammonds are expecting me—”

Arthur cleared his throat. “Mrs. Carter?”

The woman who had been speaking to the publican turned around, an expression of relief on her face. She was indeed blonde and wearing the unrelieved black of full mourning, but about a decade younger than Arthur had expected—and instead of a young son clinging to her skirts, she had on her arm a blanket-covered basket which revealed, as she turned, the face of a sleeping infant.

The woman caught sight of Arthur catching sight of the baby and the relief wavered into worry for a moment before being plastered over with a bright smile. “That would be me,” she said, approaching him at once. “Are you here to fetch me to Sorrel Park?”

“Indeed I am,” Arthur said, making a bow. “Sir Arthur Hammond, at your service.” He tried not to stare at the baby, but it was difficult; the boy—Julia had said that she’d had a son, so it must be a boy—was remarkably red-faced, and forming a bubble of spit at the corner of his mouth that was growing to prodigious size. “Ah—where is your luggage, Mrs. Carter?”

“Oh, well,” and here the smile faltered a little, “I haven’t much—” and turning a little more, revealed a worn valise on her other arm, which Arthur as a gentleman took from her at once.

They stared at each other for an awkward moment before Arthur realized that that was the extent of her luggage.

“Well,” he said, lifting the bag of what was apparently all her worldly goods, “if you haven’t any business in town, shall we be off?”

“Yes, let’s,” she agreed, and followed him out into the courtyard. “I do so look forward to seeing Julia again, after so long. Which one of these is yours, Sir Arthur?”

There was another awkward moment of staring—Mrs. Carter had very pale green eyes, like creamed peas—until Arthur realized she was referring to the carriages in the courtyard.

“Actually, none of them,” Arthur said. “I’m afraid Churki insisted on coming to fetch you herself, so I did not arrive in a carriage—we will walk ten minutes to the edge of town, and then fly the rest of the way home.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Mrs. Carter said, a little faintly.

Actually Arthur wasn’t certain how they could go flying with the baby, but that, he decided, was Churki’s problem— _he_ had very sensibly suggested a carriage. “I hope you are not afraid of heights?”

Mrs. Carter looked ill for a moment, but then straightened her back and affected another bright smile when she caught his doubtful expression. “I believe I shall manage,” she said.

They walked the rest of the way in silence, as Arthur had run out of conversation topics—generally he would ask a young lady about her music or painting, or a matron about her health, but neither seemed appropriate here—and he, at least, was relieved to see Churki’s bulk by the lane as they turned the corner, though Mrs. Carter let out a little gasp and faltered a half-step behind him before she caught herself. “Churki,” Arthur called, “I have brought Mrs. Carter, and her son—”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Churki said, swinging her massive head around. She was a common enough sight in town these days, having been chartered all this spring to plow and carry for the neighborhood, and the townsfolk had all more or less grown accustomed to her; Mrs. Carter, however, stared up for a long moment at the teeth and claws and enormous yellow eye, with her mouth opening and closing wordlessly, as though she had entirely forgotten how to speak.

Arthur nudged her.

“Oh—I—er—” stammered Mrs. Carter. “That is, the pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Churki—I mean Miss—or—ah—”

“Well, dragons do not marry,” Churki said, amused, “so I suppose it would be properly Miss, unless I were in the army, and then it would be Captain—but I am retired, so that does not signify. Just Churki, if you please. Is this your son?”

She bent her head down to inspect the basket, which Mrs. Carter clutched tighter to her chest reflexively. “His name is Walter,” she managed, regardless.

“A year old, I believe?” Churki said. “Or a little more? Ought he to be sleeping, at this hour?”

A faint flush rose in Mrs. Carter’s cheeks. “I—gave him a little laudanum,” she admitted. “For the coach.”

“In that case, let’s get home before he wakes,” Churki said, with the brisk air of a nurse who had overseen generations of children. “Arthur, stow her luggage, and then fetch the extra straps—the child cannot ride by himself, so we shall tie him to her harness.”

Mrs. Carter had the look of a woman who desperately wished to protest but did not want to contradict her employer. Arthur felt sorry enough for her to murmur a reassurance when he returned with the spare flying-harness, that his own nieces had flown in safety just the other day—not mentioning of course their age—as he fitted the leather straps around her hips and waist. “And Churki has a great deal of experience with children,” he added, “and will certainly fly with great care,” unless incited to aerial acrobatics by aforementioned children, which Arthur tactfully left out.

They stowed the basket and the valise in the luggage compartment below the dragon’s chest, and the baby, well-wrapped in blankets, was affixed to Mrs. Carter in a sort of sling. She of course could not climb up in such a condition, and so Churki lifted her up to her back where Arthur was waiting with the carabiners; Mrs. Carter looked rather pale at this point, and they were not even aloft.

“I am afraid I have no head for heights,” she confessed when asked, and indeed she had a white-knuckled grip on the handholds of Churki’s harness as Arthur secured her.

“You might close your eyes,” Arthur offered, clipping himself on beside her. “It will only be a short journey, and perhaps it will be better not to look.”

“Thank you, I will do that,” said Mrs. Carter determinedly.

However she opened her eyes reflexively as Churki took the first leap into the air, and the widow took one look at the ground swinging away beneath them and turned deathly pale, uttered a small shriek, and fainted dead away.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur and Churki conduct an interview.

“Well, at least it didn’t rain,” Churki said optimistically.

Arthur glared at her. They were just now sitting down to tea in her pavilion; he’d had to help Mrs. Carter to her cottage when they landed—which had some reason necessitated holding the baby, who had chosen that inopportune moment to wake up, cry, and be sick—which meant, of course, that Arthur had had to wash and change his coat. It was all very well for Churki to say that a man ought to get married and have children by the age of thirty, but it was not the dragon that would have the daily care of a tiny but cacophonous creature with no control over either their facilities or their digestive system.

But: “I cannot imagine it will happen as often as you seem to think,” Churki said, when he pointed this out to her. “After all, the nurses will have the care of your children for the most part—as I see from your nieces, this is the way of things in Britain.”

Arthur wanted to protest that even once was too many, but realized that it would be futile. He sighed and applied himself to a scone. “And if one does not have a nurse?” he asked. “Will your secretary be writing invitations with a child in her lap?”

“We shall ask her,” Churki said. “Mrs. Carter has promised to join us for tea, and will be along shortly.”

Arthur silently vowed to himself that if he was asked to hold the child again, he would pretend to be ill himself, and escape to the house—discretion was the better part of valor, and in any case no one who had seen his coat could say that he had not already proved his valor.

However this resolve was rendered unnecessary by the lady herself, who made her appearance at the pavilion entrance some minutes later: a little disheveled, but with the child nowhere in sight. “I do beg your pardon,” said Mrs. Carter, stopping before them with a little curtsy. “I had not realized how far the cottage was, on foot—I did not mean to be so late.”

“Please do not trouble yourself,” Churki told her, nudging over a chair with her nose. “Will you have some tea?”

Arthur took this as his cue to pour. Mrs. Carter took her tea with no sugar and a murmured “Thank you.” Above them, Churki crunched thoughtfully at a dragon-sized cucumber sandwich.

“Where’s your son?” Arthur asked after a moment.

“Oh—that is—” Mrs. Carter, evidently surprised at being so directly addressed, coughed and set down her teacup. “I had written to Julia, and we had come to an arrangement—she has agreed that her nurse will watch over Walter in the afternoons, when you will need me. I hope that is acceptable?”

Churki allowed that this was perfectly acceptable, if Julia had agreed to it. “Although I do wish you had told us that your son was so young,” she added. “We had thought that he was of an age to attend the village school, and did not expect that he would need a nurse.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Carter said. She was twisting her hands nervously in her lap, in a manner which Arthur suspected was wholly unrelated to the enormous yellow eye examining her from above. “I hope you will forgive me—I was afraid that you would have turned me away, if you knew that Walter was so young.”

Arthur snorted into his tea. Apparently Julia had not written of the difficulty in acquiring reliable help for a dragon, or else Mrs. Carter might have shown up with three children, seven cousins, an elderly uncle, and a wagon-full of chickens without having any fear of being turned away. In fact Churki might have preferred it if she had; Iskierka’s last letter had been a smug recounting of the three-hundred-some officers, riflemen, ground-crew, aides, runners, and so on under Granby now that he had been made admiral, which had prompted Churki to shake her head regretfully and exhort Arthur once again to marry into a large family.

“It is no trouble at all,” Churki was meanwhile assuring her, and moved on to the usual polite inquires meant to set their guest at ease. Mrs. Carter answered in the same spirit: yes, she was entirely recovered from the flight; yes, the cottage was very comfortable, and wanted for nothing; yes, she had met Betty the maid and was quite happy with her.

“I am afraid she is only a maid-of-all-work,” apologized Arthur, who’d had to engage a maid on extremely short notice after his mother had informed him in no uncertain terms that he would be banned from the house if he tried to poach another servant. “I could not find another one who had any experience as a lady’s maid,” who would be willing to work for a dragon at a reasonably salary, he added privately, “so it was really her or no-one.”

“Betsy will do perfectly well,” Mrs. Carter assured him. “I am quite accustomed to dressing myself.”

Indeed it was very likely that she had been without any servants at all for quite a while, if Julia’s intelligence about her straitened circumstances were any indication, but Arthur forbore to mention this. Mrs. Carter had accepted a position as a paid companion to a dragon with a salary of twenty-five pounds a year; she could not have been living on much more than that, before. Indeed, the lace hem of her gown was decidedly threadbare.

Churki deftly turned the conversation again, this time to the subject of the child himself, which Mrs. Carter was perfectly happy to expound on. Arthur took this opportunity to make inroads in the tea tray. He listened with half an ear as Walter’s first steps, first words, and first foods were discussed in excruciating detail, and only attended to the conversation when Churki began asking about Mrs. Carter’s family.

Mrs. Carter had been born Miss Mary Greenwood from Beecham, where Julia’s father had been the vicar; they had played together as children, though Julia had been a few years older. Eventually they had become relations by marriage, of some sort—“My father’s cousin,” Mrs. Carter said, frowning to recall it, “married one of her mother’s sisters—but I cannot remember precisely, perhaps it was her father’s sister?”

In any case, a few years later Julia had married James Hammond and moved away. Mrs. Carter’s life took a difficult turn a few years after that, when her father died—her mother having already passed away when she was young, leaving her an only child—and her father’s property was inherited by a second cousin who had immediately turned her out. She had been forced to take up residence with an elderly aunt in remote Cornwall, where she made the acquaintance of a Lieutenant Joseph Carter.

“He was recovering from an injury at the time,” she said. “We married before he was sent back to France. I was expecting at the time, though we didn’t know it,” she added, looking down at the teacup cradled in her lap. “But he died before the war ended.”

“Why, I am very sorry for your loss,” Churki said.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Carter said, still looking down. “I miss him every day.”

“It is a pity that Walter has never met his father,” Churki went on. “Does he much resemble the lieutenant?”

“Not very,” the widow murmured. She added, with a little difficulty: “The eyes, perhaps—I believe he takes more after me, otherwise.”

“Of course it is hard to tell in a child so young,” said Churki. “Do try the apple tarts, Mrs. Carter, they are a specialty of our cook.”

“I’m sure they are wonderful,” said Mrs. Carter, looking grateful for the change in subject, and reached for the tea tray. “That is the end of my story, in any case. I wrote to Julia, asking if she knew of any positions which might be suitable for me, and here I am.”

Arthur supposed that Mrs. Carter had been hoping for a position as governess to Julia’s children rather than secretary to a dragon, but there were few families who would hire a governess who had such a young child of her own—including, in all likelihood, Julia herself, despite their childhood connection. “But really, it is outrageous that you had to take a position,” he said, frowning. “Between your portion and your widow’s pension—”

“I’m afraid that my father died quite suddenly,” Mrs. Carter said, carefully examining at the apple tart instead of him, “and did not have the time to provide for me as he might have wished,” meaning, of course, that she had no dowry and no inheritance, or at least not any worth speaking of, which was indeed quite unfortunate.

“But the pension,” Arthur went on, actually feeling indignant on her behalf. “The army is in arrears at the moment, but I had not heard of the widow’s fund in any difficulty. But if you are not receiving your pension, I could write to Whitehall and inquire—”

“Oh, no!”

Arthur broke off, startled into silence. Mrs. Carter smoothed over her alarmed expression with a small, wavering smile.

“Excuse me,” she said. “It’s only that writing to the pension fund will not be of any use. You see,” she added, picking at the tart with a fork, “my husband sold out of the Army when I wrote to him that I was expecting—but he died of sepsis a few weeks later, before he could return to England. I’m afraid that I do not qualify for the widow’s pension.”

“And the money from the sale of his Army commission?” Arthur inquired—quite pushing the boundaries of politeness to ask, but his curiosity had overridden his manners, and as she was under their care he did feel it his duty to ensure oh good God he was turning into Churki.

“It seemed that my husband had incurred several debts which needed to be settled after his death,” the widow said, which explained her poverty and painted a rather unflattering picture of the Lieutenant.

“I am sorry to hear it,” Arthur said, and meant it.

“But we must not dwell on such unhappy thoughts,” Churki said, with an admonishing look at Arthur. “Please finish your tart, Mrs. Carter, and I will tell you what sorts of duties you might expect. First, of course, you must learn Quechua—Arthur will assist you with the writing until you have had sufficient practice. And we must make preparations for the ball...”

*

“What did you think?” Churki asked later, after Mrs. Carter had departed and the maids had come to clear away the tea tray. She curled her neck around him, so that Arthur and his armchair were settled against the crook of her foreleg and she could lay her head down on the stone floor to look at him from the other side; and out of habit put her wing above them, though they were inside the pavilion and did not need such shelter.

She was referring to Mrs. Carter, of course. “I suppose she’s been very unlucky,” Arthur said at last, absentmindedly scratching at Churki’s chin when she gave him a nudge. “To have her father die, and then her husband, and no arrangements made for her and no relatives to rely upon—”

“This is what comes of having such barbaric customs,” Churki sighed. “If she had been properly looked after, she would not be in such a situation, although of course I cannot understand that there is anything _wrong_ in working to support herself.”

Arthur had spent months explaining the nuances of British society and the strictures of their social class to the dragon, so he knew that by now Churki understood perfectly well why it was not quite proper for a gentlewoman to have to work to support herself, and did not bother to argue with her. “You will be keeping her on, I suppose?” he asked. “She’s still afraid that you’ll dismiss her, because of the child.”

“Oh, of course,” Churki said. “The child will be no trouble, and we certainly cannot turn her out, as she has nowhere else to go. I will assure her tomorrow.” She made a considering sound, deep in her throat, and added: “I don’t suppose you’d like to marry her?”

“It would hardly be proper for me to turn my attentions to a widow still in mourning,” said Arthur, who had been prepared for the question. “If she still grieves her husband, then any overtures from me would certainly be unwelcome.”

To his surprise Churki did not argue. She turned her head a little, so that he was stroking the long feathered scales of her cheek, and sat for a moment with the tip of her tail twitching against the tiled floor of the pavilion.

“She was lying, you know,” Churki said, finally.

“Mrs. Carter?” Arthur was surprised. “She was? About what?”

“Missing her husband,” Churki said. “She disliked him immensely, and certainly isn’t remaining in mourning out of any consideration for his memory. Although,” the dragon added, with an exasperated air, “I suppose this means that _she_ does not wish to marry, either. I really do not understand why you British like to make things so difficult for yourselves; I am sure my mother never had these sorts of problems in _her_ ayllu.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Churki’s wrong, actually—her mother ran into these issues all the time!  
> I imagine the status of paid companions to be pretty similar to governesses: well-educated women from the gentry whose families had fallen on hard times and who had to support themselves with work. There’s been a lot written about the difficult life of a governess, so I won’t go into that here, but in terms of salary Charlotte Bronte (who had to work as a governess and then wrote long depressing stories about her experience) was paid only twenty pounds a year for her position, which was about average—so Churki is actually being pretty generous here! This is a small sum but they do get room and board, so at least they didn’t have to pay for their own food and rent. And it’s more money than a maid would get—the lowliest maids (maid-of-all-work, as mentioned here) would get maybe 5 to 7 pounds a year, and they had to do a lot of manual labor with little time off.  
> Of course no one really looked at a governess and thought, “Well, at least she’s not a scullery maid!” Social classes were very strictly defined and it would’ve been unthinkable for a gently-bred woman (even the poorest) to go around scrubbing pots all day as a job. (She might have to scrub some pots for free if her family couldn’t afford enough maids, or if she had to live as a poor relation with her distant cousin who took her in out of charity, but that would have been socially acceptable versus the degradation of being paid by a stranger to do it.)  
> In terms of what a good income would be—everyone is familiar with Mr. Darcy and his famous ten thousand pounds a year, but obviously that was very rare. A middle class family could live comfortably on perhaps 250 pounds a year. For this story, I’m taking my cue from the books where Laurence earns, loses, and then regains his fortune of ten thousand pounds. Ten thousand pounds would’ve given him an income of 500 pounds a year when invested in the Funds (which was a pretty secure 4 or 5% a year, versus variable yearly incomes from tenant rents or mercantile ventures), and maybe his family also gave him some money yearly but I can’t imagine that to exceed the income from his fortune, or else it would have been mentioned somewhere. Laurence is the younger son of an earl and if an annual income of ~750 pounds max considered perfectly respectable to maintain him in the style to which he had been accustomed, then Churki’s potential income (2000 pounds a year if she sold all her gold and put it in the Funds) would be pretty impressive to a bunch of country gentlemen with no ties to the aristocracy. (Anyone thinking of the Bennets and their dire financial straits despite also having 2000 pounds a year—it’s implied that the Bennets are just super bad with money and never bothered to save anything for the future. Churki would never be so foolish!)  
> By the way, Mrs. Hammond has a point that Arthur should get married and have children to provide security for his family. Property in England at the time was generally passed down through agnatic primogeniture (eldest male inherits), so since James doesn’t have any sons yet, Arthur is currently the heir to Sorrel Park. It’s not very urgent, since James and Julia are still young and will presumably be having some more children, and also there’s a third (unmarried) Hammond brother floating around, but there aren’t any males in the next generation of her descendants yet so if all three brothers somehow died next week, Sorrel Park would go to a cousin who (much like Mr. Collins) would then have the right to kick her, Julia, and her granddaughters out of their home.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur considers his career.

With Mrs. Carter’s arrival, Churki’s plans for a mid-summer ball went ahead full force, ably aided by both Mrs. Hammond and Julia—all three of whom who had, for some unfathomable reason, decided that Arthur was sure to meet his True Love at the ball and therefore no effort was to be spared in making it the highlight of the local social calendar. In vain did Arthur try to persuade them that _any_ ball would be the highlight of the local social calendar regardless, as none of their neighbors were in the position to throw one. No: the guest list had to be distinguished; the refreshments had to be impeccable; the tulle for the ballroom draperies had to be the precise shade of blue that would best match Arthur’s cravat-pin. Everything had to be perfect.

“As though it matters in the least whether we serve our tarts with plums or apricots,” Arthur complained bitterly to Mrs. Carter, a few days later as they sat together at the writing desk in Churki’s pavilion; he had found in her a sympathetic ear after three afternoons straight of going over the guest list together—or rather, listening to Churki and Mrs. Hammond go over the guest list. Churki had wanted to invite twenty of the neighborhood’s most eligible women to the ball, and five young men for Sarah; Mrs. Hammond had agreed with her in principle, but good manners propelled her to insist on having an even number of gentlemen and ladies for the dancing; Churki had argued that inviting eligible young men to the ball would be competition for Arthur, and therefore counterproductive; Mrs. Hammond had pointed out that it would not do to slight the neighboring families. And so on and so forth for several hours, until Arthur was ready to pull out his hair. “No one will remember such a detail afterwards—we might as well use blackberries, and save ourselves the expense.”

“Do you know, I quite agree,” Mrs. Carter said, sighing as she stretched out her hand. With the guest list finally agreed upon, it had fallen to Mrs. Carter to write out the lengthy number of invitations, which would take a great many hours and likely more than a few hand cramps. Arthur felt sorry for her, but not sorry enough to help; he had his own task of winnowing down the menu to something more reasonable, not to mention tea with the Philips in two hours.

“I had never imagined that dragons would be so—so—interested in human society,” Mrs. Carter said now. “This ball, and a dinner next week—not to mention all the smaller gatherings you are obligated to go to,” she added sympathetically. “And I hear you have already had a musicale?”

Arthur groaned. It was fortunate that Churki was away at the moment making deliveries, or else he would have been subjected to another lecture. “I beg you not to mention the musicale.”

“Forgive me,” said Mrs. Carter, her lips twitching as she bent over the invitations. “I won’t speak of it again.”

Arthur turned back to his own list of lemonade and light refreshments with a sigh. Three years ago he had been drinking tea in Beijing with some of the most powerful ministers in the Imperial Court. Now he was back at home in Sorrel Park, and the provincial bustle of assemblies and balls and dinners and the exhortations of marriage from every corner and the inexhaustible village gossip altogether provoking a very strange sense of déjà vu—although of course from what he remembered of nine years ago, it had been James on the chopping block of matrimony, and not himself.

Clearly, James had not managed to escape his fate.

Arthur gave due consideration to the possibility that he could find as much happiness in a wife and children and settled household as his brother had, and promptly discarded the thought as absurd. It wasn’t that he _didn’t_ want a wife and children and a settled household, but he had always imagined it in some distant future when he was older: an established diplomat with a successful career behind him.

Well, Arthur _was_ older, and he _was_ an established diplomat who had consolidated British relations with China, and brokered an alliance of dragons, and treated with kings and lords and emperors across four continents, and earned himself a knighthood. But he still felt like the same restless nineteen-year-old who had left Sorrel Park behind him all those years ago—eager to see the world, without any obligations to hearth and home except in that distant future.

If Churki could hear his thoughts, she would doubtless shake her head disapprovingly and say that this was immature behavior. And his brother, sister-in-law, and mother would all agree with her, Arthur thought with grim amusement; not to mention his sisters and nieces, at least three other dragons of his personal acquaintance, and human society at large. Perhaps it _was_ immature. But nonetheless Arthur could not quite bring himself to proceed into maturity.

What he needed, Arthur thought, with a sidelong glance at Mrs. Carter’s golden hair and pensive profile, was a distraction. Some sort of worthy cause for a meddlesome dragon to take up, whereby she might satisfy her good intentions and her desire to expand her ayllu both at once...

*

“Well, I am certainly glad to see you taking an interest in those under our care,” Churki said approvingly.

They circled slowly above the rolling Yorkshire hills in the golden light of late afternoon , low enough that Arthur did not feel the need to burrow into a blanket against the chill. Tea at the Philips’ had been the usual round of small talk and stale scones—Miss Elizabeth Philips and Miss Eleanor Philips were both entirely proper young ladies, but Arthur felt himself incapable of marrying into a family with so little oversight of their own kitchen—and now they were indulging in a bout of what Churki referred to as “inspecting the fields” and what Arthur privately thought of as “loitering.”

“However,” Churki went on, “surely you must remember that we are having that dinner-party next week, and we cannot simply fly to London to inquire after the widow’s fund. And in any case I do not believe Mrs. Carter would thank you to interfere in her affairs.”

This was such a change from Churki’s usual attitude towards interference that Arthur found himself at a loss for words for several moments.

“If you are concerned that she’ll leave our service if she has another source of income—” he began finally.

“Oh, certainly not,” Churki assured him. “She seems to have no other family, and we must look after her, as she _is_ Julia’s relation. I’m sure we can persuade her to stay on regardless,” in Arthur’s opinion vastly overestimating Mrs. Carter’s willingness to risk wrist-strain while writing invitations. “But I do not understand why you don’t believe her when she says she does not qualify for the pension.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe her,” Arthur said hastily. “Only that it is so unfair, and I thought—if we went down to London in person—some consideration might be given to a knight of the realm, which might not be extended to a mere lieutenant’s widow—”

Churki actually craned her neck around to look at him.

“Hammond,” she said severely, “I’m sure you have only the best of intentions, but I cannot approve of you abusing your position in this manner.”

Which was an astonishing piece of hypocrisy for a dragon who had bribed a captain of the Incan army for the right to sneak through enemy lines to retrieve him. But by now Arthur was familiar enough with dragons to know that they—particularly the heavyweights—had a penchant for believing that rules only _really_ applied to everyone else, so he just sighed deeply.

“Only the sort of considerations that might acquire a fair hearing on the matter—” he attempted.

Churki was having none of it.

“And you must think of your family and friends, who will all be disappointed if you do not attend the dinner,” she said. “In particular Miss Winter—” this being Churki’s current favorite candidate for his hand in marriage, on the grounds of her harp-playing and also the beautifully embroidered handkerchief with a pattern of roses which she had presented to Churki as a gift, the other ladies having not yet discovered how susceptible dragons were to bribery (although, to their credit, they had all very quickly realized that Churki would be an invaluable ally in hunting down Arthur), “—who we have arranged to be your seat-mate, so that you might get to know her better—”

Arthur sighed and settled in for another lecture.

But he _would_ write to the Widow’s Fund about Mrs. Carter, he resolved to himself, as Churki went on about the many delightful qualities of the several young ladies in the neighborhood. The war had taken its toll on England, and it was damnably unfair that soldiers and widows like Mrs. Carter had been left to pay the worst of the price after the celebrations were over. Arthur was too much in disgrace with Whitehall at the moment to dabble in anything resembling politics—but he would try his hand at this one small thing, and see if he could effect any change.

Although Churki was likely right in one thing: he would not tell Mrs. Carter of his attempt before it was successful; it would be cruel to give her hope which the bureaucracy of England might not answer.

*

_From the personal journal of Mrs. Margaret Hammond:_

_10 most eligible ladies in the neighborhood, by name, age, and dowry; and notes_

  * _Elizabeth Fairwell, 23,_ _£4000: accomplished and intelligent; mother’s family in trade_
  * _Mary Greenlaw, 19,_ _£2000: excellent singing voice; too shy, must remember to get Julia to encourage her to speak_
  * _Elizabeth Philips, 25,_ _£3000: steady girl but of advanced age_
  * _Eleanor Philips, 20,_ _£3000: entirely unobjectionable, seat next to Arthur at dinner_
  * _Patricia Stanton, 24,_ _£2500: shrill laugh, only acceptable if Arthur is reinstated to China_
  * _Jane Warren, 22,_ _£1100: eldest Warren daughter, moderately accomplished, excellent on the violin; struggling family estate_
  * _Victoria Warren, 21,_ _£1100: unfortunate tendency to freckle_
  * _Lucy Williams, 19,_ _£5000: heiress with expectations, must convince Arthur to strongly consider her_
  * _Henrietta Windham, 18,_ _£2000: sweet girl if Arthur can overlook her squint_
  * _Isabella Winter, 22,_ _£2500: good family, excellent manners, dreadful dancer_



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas update! Happy holidays, everyone. I haven't been writing much because I've had kind of a rough year (...is there anyone who hasn't had kind of a rough year??), but I think I know where I'm going with the rest of the story and in any case the next chapter is almost done and will be up next week. New Year's resolution will be to finish this!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a dinner, and Arthur inadvertently delivers a number of historical lectures.

The dinner-party was a small affair, limited to only six families; Arthur did not feel that it would be boasting to say that thirty to a table was quite intimate for any event at the Hammonds’ estate these days. Invited to the dinner were all the families of the ladies which had been decided by Mrs. Hammond and Churki to be the forerunners in the race for Arthur’s hand: the Phillips, the Winters, and the Fairwells; as well the young vicar and his wife, and the Trents which were old family friends, to fill out the table.

The ladies had been chosen without any input whatsoever on Arthur’s part, which in his defense was not for lack of trying. It was not that Mrs. Hammond and Churki did not care to consider his preferences—but it did seem that _his_ preferences came as a distant third to _theirs_ (Churki in second place, having graciously deferred to the greater experience of Mrs. Hammond on the subject of English matchmaking). Arthur had to admit that his preference for a young lady with a working knowledge of both Chinese and Quechan was unlikely to be fulfilled, but he did not think that requiring her to at least be proficient with French, Spanish, and Russian to be in the least outrageous.

“Why not ask for Latin and classical Greek as well, while we’re on the subject,” his mother had said, with some exasperation, when he brought this up.

“Those are dead languages,” Arthur said defensively, “whereas the Spanish and the Russians are our allies, and the French are at the very least our nearest neighbors—”

“Well, good horsemanship seems quite reasonable,” Julia said in soothing tones. She was, admirably, striving for common ground in the list of Qualities To Look For In A Wife that Churki had bullied Arthur into writing down. “And a steady hand on the carriage-reins—oh, and sewing—”

“The younger Miss Philips is quite accomplished with a needle,” Mrs. Hammond said.

Arthur brightened a little at this. “Is she? That will be quite useful, traveling—you have no idea how many times we’ve had to patch up the dragon-harness after a battle or a long flight—”

“Yes, I’m sure she’ll be happy to cover the harness with a beautiful pattern of flowers after a day of being shot at,” said Mrs. Hammond, with rather more sarcasm than was seemly for a lady of her years, not that Arthur was willing to take the risk of telling her so himself. “For heaven’s sake, Arthur, surely you can’t mean to be taking her into wars and so on?”

Mrs. Carter cleared her throat delicately. She was here as Churki’s representative—the beast being too large to fit inside the house, as they were making the final seating arrangements for dinner in the morning room—but for the most part had been content to listen. But now she said, “Surely not into _wars_ , I hope. But I do believe that a visit to Churki’s relations in South America, at least, will be expected, so the young lady must be willing to travel.”

“I don’t see that on the list,” Mrs. Hammond said, squinting vengefully at Arthur’s handwriting.

“I thought it was obvious!” Arthur said.

Whereupon his mother had flung her hands into the air, declared that his list made no sense, that no man in the history of the world had ever fallen in love with a woman’s horsemanship or her ability to conjugate Latin verbs, that he was being deliberately difficult, and that he would be seated next to Miss Winter and Miss Eleanor Philips at dinner and that he would be grateful for the chance to get to know them better. Arthur had not been able to see his way to disagreeing with her, and now found himself obliged to make small talk with each girl in turn while the footmen served out the courses of soup and fish and meat.

It was not that he disliked them—they were both fine young ladies of excellent breeding, and certainly no complaint could be made of either their appearance or their manners, which was only to be expected in any girl that his mother might choose. But Arthur was honest enough to admit to himself that he found their conversation a trifle dull: he had no interest in discussing watercolors or gardening or the latest village gossip. And Arthur was fair enough to admit that likely they found _his_ conversation a trifle dull, in turn: Miss Winter’s eyes glazed over at Arthur’s descriptions of the formal hierarchy of the Chinese court, and Miss Eleanor listened politely but visibly without enthusiasm when one of her innocently-posed questions subjected her to a five-minute explanation on the history of the Incan ayllu, which Arthur was somehow unable to help himself from recounting.

“Oh God, I’ve turned into an old bore,” Arthur said in horrified realization, halfway through describing the conversation to his brother when the men retired to the library for a glass of port after dinner.

“There’s no help for it,” James said bracingly, and topped up Arthur’s glass in consolation. “Why, Catherine tells me almost every week that I’m old and boring—it happens to all of us, I suppose.”

“No use worrying over it, either,” advised the elderly Mr. Trent. He had been a friend of their father’s, and was well into his sixties now; Arthur was struck by a vivid recollection of being eighteen years old and bored out of his mind while listening to Mr. Trent discussing sheep hoof infections— _sheep hoof infections_ , was that what he sounded like to a girl ten years his junior? _—_ with the late Mr. Jonathan Hammond. “The gels are used to it—they know how to nod and smile with just half an ear. They’ll forgive you easy enough if you pay them a few compliments on their singing or some such later.”

Arthur could not quite bring himself to wholeheartedly embrace his doom as an old bore, but he did apply the latter part of Mr. Trent’s advice to great success when the rejoined the ladies in the drawing room. His dinner-partners thanked him quite graciously for his compliments—Miss Winter in particular turning a very fetching pink, much to the approval of Mrs. Hammond, who unfortunately happened to be watching at that moment—and neither showed signs of trying to avoid him, as Arthur had seen done with famous old bores in dinners past.

“And they _are_ very fine girls,” Arthur found himself complaining to Churki later that night, as he prepared for bed in his corner of her pavilion. “And I don’t wish to bore them, and I’m sure they don’t wish to bore me—but I can’t imagine what we would talk about for the next forty years over the breakfast-table, if I were to marry either of them.”

“Perhaps you ought to spend more time with them and you will find something in common,” Churki said optimistically. She was peering over the screen which separated his corner from the rest, with a gleam in her enormous orange eye that indicated that she was not yet ready to give up on Miss Winter. “And once you are married, I’m sure you will find a great many things to discuss about your children.”

*

The next day brought a message from a mottled-green courier-weight feral named Lacey, whom Arthur had hired to carry letters for him. She was one of the dragons who had been born in the breeding grounds during the war and declined a captain, and had since joined up with a group of similar-minded ferals in taking up residence in a local town, where they had hired themselves out for courier-work or odd jobs; she had, in fact, been one of the first dragons that James had hired.

This morning she caught Arthur as he was heading to breakfast, and winged her way down to him on the grassy hilltop. “Letter for you,” the small dragon said, ducking her head towards the pouch at her shoulder. “From London, like you asked.”

The letter, when retrieved, bore the stamp of the War Office. Arthur promised Lacey a roast lamb if she would come back in three days for his response, and she flew off satisfied.

However, he had to wait to read the missive, as his mother was waiting to interrogate him over toast and kippers when he arrived at the house. Mrs. Hammond questioned him about the girls that had attended their dinner, and seemed pleased when he could answer correctly as to their favorite instruments or the location of their family estates; Julia, unfortunately, immediately removed him from her good graces again when she leaned across the table afterwards and innocently asked if Arthur could see himself falling in love with any of the girls.

“Well, that is,” Arthur said, fidgeting uncomfortably with his fork. “I do not find that we have much in common, in terms of our sphere of interests—”

“Did you quiz them on their French and find their conjugations lacking?” Mrs. Hammond inquired acerbically.

“Talked too much about history,” James offered; likely he thought he was being helpful. “Perhaps Arthur’s looking for a bluestocking,” with a wink, and missing Arthur’s glare.

“Several of the girls are interested in scholarship—” Julia began, thoughtfully, but her remark was trampled under Mrs. Hammond’s declaration that Arthur didn’t know what he wanted because it certainly _wasn’t_ a bluestocking.

“We must put together a list of the girls that he will dance with at the ball,” she announced.

Chloe giggled. “Like a dance card!”

“No, _not_ like a dance card,” Mrs. Hammond said. “Like a strategy—which I will require your assistance with, Julia, as we will need to determine which dances should be saved for which girl—I was thinking Miss Winter for the waltz, but perhaps that is too forward? And sit down, Arthur,” she added, over his stammered excuses to leave the table. “I can quite see that you are not finished with your breakfast. And you would not want us to pick your partners without you, would you?”

And so it wasn’t until after lunch that Arthur managed to escape back to the pavilion. The dinner had been deemed a tolerable success by his mother’s standards, but Arthur had been admonished to put more effort into charming the ladies at the ball, which was after all to be put on for his benefit, and also to educate himself on the various subjects in which a lady might enjoy so as not to bore them while dancing, or at the very least to learn how to more convincingly look interested when listening.

“Practice nodding in front of a mirror,” his mother had advised.

Arthur found himself giving strong consideration to the idea of installing a kitchen at the pavilion so that he would no longer have to venture to the house for a meal more substantial than bread and cheese; Churki, at least, would pose no objection, as she had spoken lately of hiring her own cook—she was not finding the Hammond’s chef quite adventurous enough in terms of Incan spices.

But at last Arthur found himself seated at his writing-desk, and could distract himself from matchmaking by opening his letter. It began unpromisingly with an apology from his contact for the lack of information: it seemed that a Lieutenant Joseph Carter was not to be found upon the list of the deceased for the 32nd Regiment, from Cornwall; but then, the clerk added, records for the Army had always been in a sorry state, and had not been improved by the invasion. Perhaps Lieutenant Carter had been transferred, or his papers had been lost entirely and would have to be reconstructed from the memory of his commanding officer. If Arthur could provide some details on the lady, then the clerk could inquire among the officers in London for more information on what had happened to the lieutenant; it was not unlikely that some captain or his wife would remember the pair and could better direct their efforts.

The clerk did end on the more optimistic note that, since the Lieutenant had died as a direct result of performing his duty, he believed that Mrs. Carter would indeed be eligible for some relief from the Widow’s Fund regardless of the fact that her husband had sold his commission immediately beforehand, with which small hope Arthur had to content himself for the moment.

Sighing, he pulled out a sheet of paper and began to draft his response. Doing a good deed for its own sake was turning out to be rather more complicated than he had expected; he really didn’t know how Laurence managed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year!


End file.
